“Is Wicker fucking Ashby my brother?” he seethes into the phone. Obviously, I can’t hear what’s being said on the other end, but I do see Remy’s reaction to it. His face blanks out, bled of all expression. Slowly, he says, “Right.” And then, “Naturally.” And then, “Hold on.” He gives the phone a perplexing glance before holding it out toward Wicker. “He wants to talk to you.” Wicker pulls a face that’s all hard edges and aggression, but strains over the distance to snatch it out of Remy’s hand. “What?” he snaps into the phone, another silence stretching before us. “Hello?” Wicker pulls the
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